


Four Seasons

by PlotWitch



Series: Suicide (I Understand) [4]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-22
Updated: 2006-07-22
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotWitch/pseuds/PlotWitch
Summary: It’s been two years since Edward and Anita saved each other from themselves. But now, they’re facing the end of a world, and the beginning of another…





	1. Summer

**I**

My plane lands on time for a change, and the drive home is quiet. I don’t expect anything else, it’s a pleasant Saturday and there is minimal traffic. I managed to change my flight to an earlier one, and if her schedule hasn’t changed I’ll beat Anita home.

Which was the idea when I changed the flight. It’s been too long since I was able to surprise her like this, and I want to. She isn’t expecting me until tomorrow, anyway, so just coming in a day early will at least tip the scales if she is home.

She’s not, I find when I pull up at the house. The house is quiet. Bear is curled up on one end of the couch, and I smile at it. He’s getting old, not having been young when Anita picked him out at the pound. She’d figured that if a dog was going to help save her, she could at least return the favor and get one that needed it.

I sit my suitcase next to the front door and drop the small stack of mail on the side table. My jacket comes off and goes on the coat hanger, and I loosen the straps of my shoulder holster before glancing through the mail.

It’s the usual, a few bills. A magazine, a letter for Anita. I don’t recognize the return address, but it makes no difference. We have no secrets. Well, I still have one, but I’ll be sharing it with her tonight.

I make a mean chicken stir-fry.

I flip on the radio and listen to it as I pull the ingredients out of the fridge and begin cooking. The time passes far too quickly, my mind on everything but cooking, and I smile as I hear the lock turn. The door opens and then closes, and I can see her looking around.

She smiles when she sees me.

“You came home early!” she says as she comes to me, wrapping her arms about my waist and kissing me lightly.

I smile. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise,” I say. “And I cooked dinner.”

“I know, I smelled it from the door.” She dips a finger in and picks out a piece of carrot, tasting it. “It’s good. I didn’t know you could cook.”

I shrug. “You do now. Go take a shower; it’ll be finished when you get done.”

She kisses me again and I savor the moment as she leaves. I finish cooking and setting the table, listening to the sound of the shower and the muttered curses as she gets cold water for a minute. It isn’t too long before she’s done and headed back out wearing nothing but a cotton robe over her underwear.

She’s left the sash loose so that I can see, and I feel a stirring in my groin. I ignore it, showing her to the table and stealing another kiss before sitting myself. Dinner is quiet, pleasant. She laughs and jokes and tells me about her day, I tell her about my own trip.

“So you finished your business?” she asks.

I nod. “It was a rogue kiss, like you thought.”

In the time I have been married to her, she’s managed to steer me into freelance consulting as a bounty hunter. I now travel world wide, killing things for money. Except now I do it with the blessing of the law, and don’t have to worry about getting caught. My past won’t catch up with me, of that much I am sure.

“Why don’t you go watch some TV,” I say as she gets up, once we’re done. “I can clean up.”

She smiles at walks over to me, leaning down for a kiss. My heart beat a little faster when I feel her hand slide down her chest to cup me, and she deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling back.

“The dishes,” she whispers, punctuating each word with a kiss, “can wait. I can’t.”

I silently thank God that I closed the curtains earlier as she straddles me, arms twining around my neck and kissing me again. My hands slide up her legs under the robe, until I’m holding her by the hips as she writhes against me.

“Two weeks is a long time,” I murmur against her neck.

“It is,” she sighs, tilting her back to give me better access.

My mouth moves down and I push the pieces of the robe aside so that I can kiss her breasts, hands moving to cup and knead them. She moans, her fingers digging into my shoulder and her legs going tight around me. I catch one of her nipples with my teeth, savoring the way she cries out.

“Bedroom,” I whisper as I lift her up, her legs still wrapped around me.

She bounces slightly as I drop her onto the bed, yanking my holster off and the shirt over my head as she struggles with my belt and zipper. She has my pants down and off before I can think, and I’m pushing the robe off of her shoulders and down her arms.

It pools at her waist, and she is wearing nothing but black satin panties. She lays back as I kneel over her, lowering my head to capture her mouth with mine. I feel her twist her hips slightly, then there’s nothing between us as my erection presses into her belly.

“Now, Edward,” she says and I kiss her again as I push into her.

Two weeks really is a long time, I think as I groan. She feels so good, so hot and wet and tight around me. I know that I won’t last long, even at the slow pace I’ve set. But I’m not worried. Anita hasn’t lasted long at all, and I smile as I feel her tightening around me, throbbing as she comes.

I thrust into her one, twice, three more times before coming, my body tensing at the almost painful sensation of it. And then I roll off of her, lying next to her and nuzzling my face into her neck.

“I missed you,” I say.

She laughs. “I couldn’t tell.”

“I could always show you how much again,” I say as I prop myself up on an elbow, waggling my eyebrows at her in a comical leer.

She laughs and grabs a pillow, throwing it at me. I duck it easily. “Okay, okay! I don’t have to right now.”

“Later,” she says firmly. “Go take a shower.”

“As you wish,” I say as I kiss her again, grabbing my clothes up as I go. I drop them into the clothes hamper outside the bathroom and turn the water on. A glance in the mirror shows me a faint stubble on my face and several red welts where Anita has scratched me near enough to bleeding.

I grab a razor before getting into the shower. I lather myself quickly, and use the mirror suction cupped to the wall to shave. Then rinse everything off, double checking to make sure I didn’t miss any hair. I take the time to lather my hair quickly, grimacing at the floral smell of Anita’s shampoo. I’m out and forgot to buy some on the way home from the airport.

**II**

When I get out, I towel off briskly and wrap it around my waist on my way to our room. It doesn’t strike me how silent the house is until I’ve already pulled on a pair of boxers and some old jeans. Old habits die hard, and I grab my shoulder holster up and slide my gun out.

It is a new Beretta; Anita got it for me last Christmas to replace the one that refuses to work. It still sits in a safe under my desk, but the safe and desk are now in one of the two extra bedrooms that I have converted to an office. And a giant gun safe.

You can never have too many guns.

The holster is tossed onto the bed and the Beretta is cool in my hands as I make sure there’s a round  
already in the chamber. There is, and a full clip besides that. I peer around the corner of the doorway, half expecting to see someone there with a gun.

Or worse, someone holding Anita hostage.

There’s no one. I don’t see anything past it except darkness and a faint glow from the living room. I step carefully and quietly down the hall, keeping my footsteps silent. A quick glance to the right shows me that the kitchen is neat, the dishes stacked in the sink and water filling it. There are bubbles, and I know that Anita has added the soap already.

But there’s no one there, so I turn to my left, inching forward around the corner to look into the living room. This time, I see Anita. She’s sitting on the couch holding the mail on her lap, staring at one piece.

There’s no one else, and nothing to account for the stricken look on her face. I lower the gun, flicking the safety on and just stare at her. There really isn’t anything wrong that I can see, so I can only assume that it’s the letter she’s reading.

Because it is, the letter in the plain envelope with the unfamiliar address. I can see it, torn open and forgotten on her lap amid the stack of bills and the one magazine. But I can’t think of anything that would be that terrible in a letter.

Unless it’s about her friends or family.

I make a mental tally, trying to think of what it might be. She hasn’t noticed me, or even the fact that I’m watching her with a gun in my hand, which only intensifies the feeling of dread that has crept up in my stomach. And I can’t shake it off, I can only feel the sense that something huge has happened.

Two weeks really isn’t long, no matter what we might say in the heat of lovemaking. But it’s long enough for some things. It’s long enough for tragedy. An accident, an illness.

Of her friends, I don’t think that I need to worry about the pack or the pard. They’re fairly safe. I don’t worry for Ronnie, either. I know she’s fine, I got an e-mail from her before my flight lifted off confirming that Anita was working.

Oh yes, everyone gets in on making Anita happy these days. No one has forgotten the fear of her trying to kill herself. And when they begin to slide, I remind them, so that it never happens again.

I can’t imagine anything happening to Catherine or Bob. They never do anything remotely dangerous, eat rabbit food religiously, and even carpool now. Of her family, I think she would at least be crying were it Josh or Andrea.

Judith might get a few tears, her father a sniffle. He doesn’t speak to me, and barely tolerates our marriage. But Anita loves him, so I haven’t killed him. Yet. And that’s more likely that her getting bad news about them in the mail.

And so I am left truly stumped.

There is nothing else to do, so I say her name. “Anita?” It comes out soft and hesitant.

She looks up, the distress still loud on her face, a look of terror in her eyes. They’re wide and dark, and her mouth is just slightly open. Her face is flushed and she’s breathing just a little too fast.

The letter flutters from her hands to her lap, and she swallows convulsively. “Hey,” she says, trying to sound normal. Undisturbed.

It’s enough. Just seeing her trying to hide something is enough, and I drop the gun onto the coffee table and am at her side. “What’s wrong?” I ask, reaching for the paper. Her hand beats mine, by a fraction only, but she won’t let me have it.

“Anita,” I say, and nothing else.

“We need to talk, Edward.”

I should be dying right now, I think. Those words are like knives to my heart, and it feels like it’s not beating anymore. There’s something terribly wrong, something she’s been hiding. We don’t hide things, I think, and try to suppress the screaming in my mind. She’s talking, and I’m not listening. I have to listen.

“I didn’t think anything about it until after you left, but I wanted to make sure before I said anything,” she says. She’s rambling, babbling, from fear I think. She’s afraid of me, or of what I might do when she tells me this something.

I don’t want her to be afraid of me.

“But I checked and I did the test and then the doctor did too,” and she stops.

My heart freezes. Tests, she had tests, and she doesn’t want to tell me about it. Hides it. Oh yes, something terrible has happened. The worst, but I can’t figure out how she would have gotten lycanthropy. She hasn’t been anywhere near a shifted were in a long time.

Oh god. Oh god no.

She’s holding the paper out to me, telling me to read it, but I can’t read it past my fear. I already know what it says, and I don’t want it to say it. I don’t want this, I want my Anita. Without fur, all the time.

“How did this happen?” I choke out.

She looks at me, an odd expression on her face. “Sex,” she says. “Isn’t that how it normally happens?”

I just stare at her. “You had—with—who—What the fuck, Anita?”

I push off from the couch angrily, clawing my hands through my hair. “You fucked someone and got it? Why? Who? God, Anita,” I say turning to her. “How could you?”

She’s looking at me confused. “Well, I thought you’d take it badly, but even for you this is a little melodramatic.”

“Melodramatic?” I say, voice shifting dangerously low and quiet. “You’re a—Fuck. I can’t even say it.”

“What are you talking about, Edward?” she finally says.

“You,” I shoot back. “You fucking some damned were and getting lycanthropy.”

And she laughs.

She fucking laughs and I want to scream at her. Take that damned piece of paper and rip it into a million pieces, burn them and then scatter them to the wind. I want to cry. She’s laughing at me, at the hurt.

I slump down to the ground, head in my hands, leaning back against the loveseat. She’s not laughing anymore at least. “You don’t have to be so amused by it, Anita,” I mutter.

I hear the creak of the couch as she slides off, papers rustling when she puts them on the coffee table. Her hands are warm on mine. “Edward,” she says. “I didn’t sleep with anyone else.”

She presses a kiss to my cheek as I look up. “You didn’t?”

“God, no!” The fear and worry are gone from her face, and she seems more amused than anything else. “Did you even read that paper I handed you?”

I shook my head.

“I’m not a lycanthrope, Edward,” she says, a faint tinge of nerves back in her manner. “I’m pregnant.”

And like that, the pieces fall into place. I’m sure I could find something to feel a little more stupid over. But right now, nothing comes to mind.


	2. Fall

**III**   
_Two months_

“You don’t have to go,” she’s saying to me as I follow her out to her Jeep.

I sigh and roll my eyes. For a grown woman who’s been married for two years, she’s awfully… young. Or maybe just nervous. And frightened. I know I am.

“Anita, I’m not letting you go by yourself. I helped make this baby, I’m going to be there for the entire thing,” I say back as I get in the Jeep.

She slams her door and starts the engine. Then we sit there. “I don’t want you to go, Edward,” she says.

“Why?” I ask, doing my best to hide the sudden hurt that comes from her words.

She fidgets. “Because there’s going to be an examination.”

Ah. She’s embarrassed. I could sympathize with her, but not really. At least this is something that I can easily fix. “Would it make you feel better if I waited outside during it?”

She nods, hands tight on the wheel.

I try not to laugh. It’s not like I haven’t seen any of it before. But I don’t say it, and instead spend the rest of the ride silent next to her. She pulls into a space, parks, gets out. She waits for me to come around to her, then slides her hand into mine.

It’s shaking, her hand is, and for a moment I think how hard this must be for her. She’s facing something that I can only look at from the outside. Yes, I’ll be a father, but it’s not my body that will be changing to accommodate it. It’s not me who will carry this small person for nine months, and then go to hell and back to sweat, pant and push it out.

No, it’s her. And it’s not something I can do for her, take care of for her. But I can be there for her, and help her as much as I am able. That much, I can do.

Her nerves seem gone as she’s goes into the room, leaving me outside in the waiting area. I wait, flipping through magazines and watching other couples in the room from the corners of my eyes. It’s deceptively normal, these women. You’d never know that there’s a small war waging inside their bodies as they prepare for a new life.

I wait, and wait. Then wait some more. Finally the door to her room opens and I see her in the doorway, looking for me, finding me. Waving me to come over. she’s more relaxed now, almost smiling.

“We’re going to do the sonogram,” she says to me.

I smile.

Once she’s on the table, lying back, her shirt is pushed up. Cold gel or jelly makes her squirm, then the machine, a small thing, pressed against her still flat stomach and moved around. We watch the screen, I find myself impatient. It’s still dark.

Then a pale blur on it, and the doctor wiggles the machine again. She holds it still, and the blur becomes focused. A shrimp. It looks like a shrimp.

My son, the shrimp.

I must say it out loud, because Anita is laughing now, holding my hand and smiling up at me. “Who says it’s a boy?”

I bend down and kiss her. “I don’t care what it is, as long as it’s okay.”

The doctor is smiling, watching us. Then she reaches over and flicks a switch. Suddenly, the staccato sound of rapid heartbeats fills the room, and we simply hold hands as we listen to the sound of our child.

**IV**   
_Three months_

Three months and counting, I think as I get out of bed. Anita is wrapped around the pillows and blankets, she doesn’t even stir when the bed rocks as I stand. I was actually wondering if it would really happen, the desire to sleep like a rock for long periods of time.

I bought a book last week that says it happens. During the first trimester, most women will be tired all the time. And cranky. And emotional and overly sensitive.

She is. But I don’t tell her that.

If I did she’d probably shoot me.

So instead I read the book, prepare, and I cook for her. This morning I plan to surprise her with omelets, plain, with extras on the side. And maybe some toast. And some orange juice to wash down the prenatal vitamins she has to take.

They look like horse pills, almost an inch long and I have absolutely no idea how she swallows them.

The eggs are nearly done and the toast and juice are waiting when I hear her get up. Then I hear a door slam followed by the sounds of her retching and then flushing the toilet. I sigh and don’t even wait for the eggs to finish, only dump them in the sink and send them down the drain before she comes out.

Toast and juice it is.

When she finally does come out of the bathroom she’s still wearing her robe. I raise an eyebrow but only continue drinking my coffee and reading the paper. She stands in front of the counter looking at the coffee machine, then sits comes and sits down at the table.

Her face is pale, and her eyes are wide.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, wondering if she’ll blow up at me or answer.

She shakes her head. “My pants won’t fit. I couldn’t get my jeans zipped.”

For a moment I don’t know what to say. She’s only three months along, but it would be any time that she starts not fitting into her clothes. But she doesn’t exactly look happy about it.

“Did they shrink or…?” I just let the question die as she comes over to me, leaving her robe draped across the back of the chair.

She’s wearing loose fitting cotton pants, pajama pants actually, and a tank top. The pants normally hang off of her, requiring them to be cinched and tied at the waist with the drawstring. This morning they don’t. They’re snug across her abdomen, and I can see that the ribbing of her shirt is stretched a bit, too.

I can see it, as she stands next me. The way her belly is swelling. The faint curve to it just below her navel. Even more obvious when I lay my hand across it. So blatant, for someone who knows her body so well.

I press my lips to her belly, and then stand, pressing them again to hers as she wraps her arms around my neck. “My son, the shrimp,” I whisper to her.

She leans her head back and laughs.

**V**   
_Four months_

She’s finally asleep. It took her forever, tonight. But once she does get there, she doesn’t wake up until the morning. The morning sickness is damn near killing her, these past few weeks. She’s always eating and then promptly throwing it up.

I don’t know why they call it morning sickness. Morning, noon and night sickness would be more apt, and even then it doesn’t cover all the bases. There’s no more coffee, it has been forbidden until the smell agrees with her again.

I’m forced to sneak Starbuck’s while she’s at work.

She never wants to cuddle anymore, either. Hot flashes she says. I think it annoys her, because we spent the better part of the past two years sleeping wrapped around each other. The most we do now is wrap our arms around the other.

But it’s normal. At least the book says it’s normal. None of this seems normal to me. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her. Well, I get a pretty good idea, but still, nothing happening to me. Mostly.

I haven’t told her about my own nausea, or the two pounds I’ve gained in the last four months. I talked with my own doctor who told me to buy a book. And laughed when I told him I already had it.

Sympathy nausea.

I hate it, and I only get the edge of what she gets. I don’t envy her, the morning sickness and hot flashes. The swelling feet and the constant exhaustion. And I know it’s only going to get worse.

I’m halfway through the latest issue of _Guns & Ammo_ when she startles straight up, eyes wide and mouth open in surprise. Normally if she did this, I’d already have my gun in hand and be searching for the intruder that woke her. But I’ve been reading with one ear to the door, and there’s nothing.

Absolutely nothing, and she’s still looking like someone punched her.

“What’s wrong, Anita?” I ask almost casually, not wanting to make a big deal that might jar her fully awake.

A mistake that, thinking she was asleep. No, she’s wide awake and her hand is clutching at my arm. “You didn’t wake me up?” she asks, her voice fuzzy with sleep.

She blinks a few times as I shake my head. “No, I was reading. Did the light bother you?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know wha—oh!”

Her hand is to her belly where the swell is becoming larger and more noticeable every day. The surprise is still on her face, and her eyes are so wide. And she’s smiling.

She looks at me, her face awestruck. “Edward, I think I felt it move.”

For a moment I pause at ‘it,’ thinking maybe we should have found out what it was. It’s our child, not an ‘it,’ and it’s moving. I press my hands over her belly and wait, looking at her hopefully, magazine fallen to the floor and forgotten.

Her hands are over mine and she’s watching her stomach, waiting. “It’s moving a little,” she whispers, “but not like before. Not like what woke me up.”

“I don’t feel anything,” I whisper back, trying hard to keep my disappointment out of my voice.

And then, exactly as we both start to move our hands away, giving up, a little bounce to her belly. My hand jerks back in surprise and my eyes catch hers.

“You felt it?” she asks, excited.

I nod, trying hard to speak around the sudden knot in my throat. “I felt it,” I say back, swallowing. “I felt it.”

**VI**   
_Five months_

“We’re going to have to tell your family soon.”

“I don’t want to,” she tells me.

I sigh. “Honey, most everyone already knows.”

She glares at me.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No, I didn’t tell anyone because you said not to.” I lay a hand on her belly, where the curve is becoming more and more noticeable as the baby grows. “But you can’t hide it forever. Even Bert’s asked, because he can’t remember the last time you wore something other than sweats to the office.”

“Did you tell him?” Her voice is high, tight, panicked. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why she’s trying to keep it a secret.

She’s been married for two and half years, to me, and I know her father hates me, but still. Is that’s the only reason, I should start worrying. I don’t really care what her father thinks, but if the man’s opinion means so much to her… Well, maybe I should have a little talk with him.

Besides, all this stress can’t be good for her or the baby.

“I didn’t tell anyone. Yet,” I answer as I calmly stir the light pesto sauce as it simmers on the stove.

What Anita doesn’t know is that her father will be here in less than twenty minutes. With Judith, Andrea and Josh in tow. I have a young white wine chilling in the fridge, and a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling apple juice as well. Because one, Anita doesn’t drink anyway, and two, she really won’t drink now that she’s pregnant.

“What do you mean, ‘yet’?” she asks suspiciously, the knife clenched in her hand.

“Finish chopping that parsley, or no dessert for you.”

In two years, I’ve learned that it’s best not surprise Anita. But even I can’t figure out a way to spring this on her without it being a complete and utter shock. So I just jump right in, grateful that there’s no time for her to change from the form fitting skirt and v-necked tank top she’s wearing.

The red and black look good on her, the skirt hugging to her legs and accenting the lower swell of her abdomen, while the red shirt dips low enough to make me look, but drops into a ribbon that spans around it just under her breasts. It’s tied in a bow, the tails trailing down.

There will be no way for her to hide it once they get here.

I tap the spoon off and lay it on the saucer next to the stove, lowering the heat to next to nothing. She’s bent over the cutting board, concentrating hard on chopping the parsley as fine as I need it. She looks so beautiful standing there, one foot crossed behind the other, belly lightly brushing the counter.

I brush her hair to one side and press a gentle kiss the back of her neck. She drops the knife and turns slightly, one arm coming back to hold my head, her lips seeking mine. A quick kiss, I tell myself, then I’ll tell her that her family is coming.

But I’m too late and am torn away from the kiss by the sound of the door chimes. Anita looks at me, a puzzled expression across her face. “Who’s here?” she says, getting ready to go answer the door.

“Anita,” I sigh. “I invited your parents to dinner.”

She goes pale. “Oh, God. Edward, how could you do this?”

“You have to tell them sometime. _I’ll_ tell them if it’s that hard for you,” I say. “But we can’t sneak about. This isn’t something to hide, it’s something to celebrate.”

She swallows and looks at me. “I know,” she whispers, her face nearly falling. “I know,” this time a little louder.

“You finish the parsley, I’ll get the door. I’ll tell them,” she says, one hand sliding over the swell of the baby. Touching it as if to reassure herself that it’s still there, that this isn’t a dream.

I shake my head. “We’ll do this together.”

“Together,” she says, reaching for my hand.

**VII**   
_Six months_

I finally broke her down. The hardest part was telling her family. Or rather, her father. He really hates me for some reason. And I can’t figure out why. Maybe he doesn’t believe us when we try and tell him that I never once told Anita to slit her wrists.

Or maybe it’s just because I’m fucking his daughter.

And now that everyone knows, she can’t protest shopping for maternity clothes. Even I started commenting on the sweats 24/7. It’s not like she has to hide anything. Besides, I kind of like her the way she is. You’d thing her being pregnant would turn me off.

Yeah right. My hormonal surges are directly related to hers. And since she seems to be one giant hormone… I don’t get much sleep.

But tonight, I’ll sleep well. If only to hide from the credit card bill I know will be coming next month. I’ve talked her into shopping, I’ve taken her to the mall.

God help me. For that matter, anyone help me. Please.

She’s in the dressing room trying things on. I’m playing gopher for her. I’ve been hauling pants and shirts and blouses and even one very expensive leather jacket. I don’t really care about the cost. We can afford it. And if take a little hit on the side to help pay the bills… She’d probably kill me.

“Edward,” she calls over the door. “I need a bigger one. Get me the next cup size up”

She tosses a box out and I see that it’s one of those maternity bras that can be adjusted for nursing later. I raise my eyebrow. That’s something we haven’t discussed yet, even though the Lamaze classes start in two weeks. But I shrug and go over to the rack, grabbing the next size up.

I hand it over the top and after a few minutes hear some muttered curses. The box gets tossed back at me, my reflexes the only thing saving it from hitting my head. I guess it doesn’t fit.

“Bigger,” she says.

I look at the box. It’s a G cup. I didn’t even know that they came that big. But I get the next one. An H cup, and bring it back to her. More curses later it flies over the top of the door. “Next size,” she says, and go back to look.

I don’t find a bigger size and get a saleslady. “She needs a bigger one,” I say. The woman takes the box, turns it over, looks at the rack. Then goes to the sales desk.

She consults a book, then comes back, saying, “We don’t have anything bigger.”

I just sigh. Anita wasn’t small chested to begin with, but I didn’t think she’d outgrown all bras known to man. Woman. Whatever. I go back to the dressing room, the saleslady in tow.

“Anita, there isn’t anything bigger,” I say, wincing at the expected outburst of curses.

Instead I hear sniffling. I open the door a crack and she’s sitting on the bench in there, wearing nothing but her underwear and her old bra, crying. I glance back at the saleslady.

“She’s crying,” I say, and I can hear the desperation in my voice.

The woman just nods. “Go hug her, comfort her. I know a place where you can have bras made to special sizes.”

So I go in, sit next to her, wrap my arms around her. She cries into my shirt. “I’m huge,” she says. “They’re bigger than the baby!”

A sigh and rub her back. “It’s only temporary,” I say.

She cries even harder. I sigh again. One giant hormone….

**VIII**   
_Seven months_

She’s already home when I pull up in the drive. I smile, surprised. She hadn’t told me she was leaving work early, and I look forward to spending the evening with her. We have a lot to do, the baby shower last week really gave us a lot of work. Not to mention the furniture was delivered yesterday.

Bear gives a half-hearted bark as I unlock and open the front door, and I stoop to give him a scratch behind his ears. His muzzle is almost all gray now, and I think that maybe he’ll die soon. I hope not. Anita’s already emotional enough, I can only imagine what would happen if he died.

He licks at my hand and then trots slowly into the living room, flopping down on the pillow we got for him with a doggie groan. I put my keys and bag down next to the door and head for the kitchen. I can see her at the stove, she’s cooking something.

Which isn’t necessarily a good thing, but she’s getting better at it. I’ve been teaching her, once she could stand the smell of real food again. And coffee, thank God there is coffee in the house again.

I come up behind her and lay my hands on her hips. She has her hair tied up into a bun, with a few straggling curls escaping it to brush her neck. My lips nibble at her ear as she squeals and turns to me. I have to step back a bit, the baby has grown so, but it’s a pleasant thing to do.

I lean over, pressing my lips to hers. “What a nice thing to come home to,” I tease. “My wife, pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen.”

She laughs and swats at me with the spoon, splattering spaghetti sauce on the counter and my sweater. Her face immediately turns contrite and she grabs a towel to wipe at the red spot. It only smears worse and she looks up at me.

“Sorry,” she says. Then her eyes light up and her hands slide under the sweater, pushing it up. I raise my arms and let her tug it off. “You look so much better without it, anyway,” she says with a laugh.

Her hands are hot against my chest, and I pull her face to mine, kissing her. “You want?” I whisper to her.

She nods, smiling, her lower lip caught between her teeth. I reach behind her, turning the heat off, before grabbing her hands and pulling her to the bedroom, kissing her as we go. My shoes are kicked off in the hallway, the pants and socks follow before we hit the door.

Her apron lands somewhere between my shoes and pants, and the simple slip dress comes over her head and lands on the dresser. She laughs as we hear the clink of glass on glass. “Hope we didn’t break anything,” she says as she kisses me again, hands dipping to my hips and pushing my boxers down.

“I don’t really care if we did,” I mutter back as I lay her down on the bed, carefully unhooking her bra and removing it gently. Her breasts grow more sensitive the closer her due date comes.

I lower my mouth to one and she gasps, throwing her head back and letting her fingers slide over my back. I slide her panties of and press a kiss to her swollen belly, almost smiling as I feel the faint movement inside as the baby shifts.

“Are you sure?” I ask her as she looks up at me with half closed eyes.

She nods again. “You don’t want to?” she says, softly.

“I just…”

“It won’t hurt the baby,” she whispers. “Why are you worried?”

“It moved,” I answer. Then I laugh. This is silly. It’s no different than any other time we made love while she was pregnant. I kiss her. “I’m being silly, Anita,” I say.

She nods and kisses me again, molding her back to me where I lay behind her, one leg sliding over mine. My hand goes around her to grab a pillow, and I wedge it under her stomach. My momentary nervousness has passed, and I’m no longer worried.

It’s not as if we haven’t done this before, I think as I slide an arm around her to her breasts, cupping and kneading gently. Her head twists back, her mouth seeking mine as I slide into her from behind. She moans, and I drink the sound in.

She’s so sensitive that she comes quickly, crying out into my mouth as I thrust into her. Her back arches, pushing her butt against me and letting me drive deeper in. I feel the sudden coiling in my groin as I come, and I groan, pulling her tight against me and pressing my face into the crook of her neck, kissing it.

We lay there when we finish, her leg still over mine, my hand on her and the baby. She sighs.

“I love you, Edward,” she whispers.

I smile and kiss her shoulder. “I love you, too, Anita.”

She gives a lazy laugh. “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat, then you can move the furniture.”

A sigh as I get up. No rest for the wicked.

**IX**   
_Eight months_

“Edward, I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“Will you go get me something?”

“What do you want?”

Cravings. God’s most evil gift to pregnant women and expectant husbands. Well, that and the mood swings. Anita is lying on the couch, a pillow under her belly, another under her head. Bear is curled on top of her feet, and she’s flipping through channels.

I’m sitting in the rocking chair we bought for the baby’s room before we realized that between all the toys and furniture it had, there was no room for it. It was comfortable, and even had a matching ottoman glider that lets me rock in peace as I read my latest issue of _Guns & Ammo_.

“I want Chinese. And a hot fudge sundae. With extra sweet and sour sauce, and extra hot fudge, too.”

I just get up and grab my keys and jacket. It’s snowed for the first time today; it won’t be fall for much longer. St. Louis is swiftly moving into winter. I go over to the couch and give her a kiss, then head out into the snow for her food.

The Chinese is first, I order her favorites and the extra sweet and sour sauce, then drop them into the cooler in the backseat of my car. Then I head to the local ice cream shop and order a sundae for her, sitting it on the seat next to me. The car is still so cold that I don’t worry about it melting.

When I get back she’s not on the couch anymore, and I hear the toilet flush as I sit the bags on the counter. She comes up, waddling, though I’ll never tell her that to her face. I smile and only smile. I won’t laugh, no matter how much like a penguin she walks.

“What do you want first?” I ask as she settles back onto the couch.

“Ice cream,” she says.

I take it to her and she starts eating it. She’s maybe three bites in when she shoves it at me and gets back up and waddles to the bathroom. Two minutes and a flush later, she decides she doesn’t want the Sunday after all, but really, really wants the shrimp fried rice and sweet and sour sauce.

I get it for her, waiting on the couch as she heads for the bathroom again. One minute and another flush later she’s back, glaring at me as I struggle to hide my smile.

“You’d have to pee all the time, too, if you had a baby bouncing on your bladder.”

I only smile and kiss her.

She repeats her trip at least half a dozen more times before she gives up eating and snuggles into my arm. We flip through the channels until we find an old black and white movie we can agree on, and I’m almost asleep when I feel her wince against me.

I come fully awake in a heart beat. “Is it time?” I ask, already looking around to make sure that her hospital bag is by the front door and the spare keys to the house are on the table next to it.

She laughs a little and rubs her chest. “No; just heart burn. No baby.”

“Oh. Want a Tums?”

She shakes her head. “That’s not going to help this,” she says and just lays back on her pillows.

And she’s right. There’s nothing an antacid will do for a baby giving her acid reflux. All it’ll do is give her chalk mouth for a while.

I sigh and kiss her belly, give her shoulders a rub. “You know, if I could I’d do this for you.”

“No you wouldn’t,” she says as she props her feet on my lap.

“Okay. I wouldn’t it all, but I’d do at least half.”

“I know,” she says.


	3. Winter

**X**  
_Nine months_

She’s tired. The day is nearly over with, but it’s already been the longest day of the year for her. For us. I’ve carted the television into the bedroom and laid it on its side. I’m not sure if that’s good for it, but it’s the best I can do for Anita. Even have the DVD player hooked up and some chick movie turned on.

_Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood._

I watched a little of it. Right up until the nice little old ladies drug the young woman. That was when I started tuning it out and concentrating on Anita. Because I don’t want to watch some movie where they’re drugging people over a family problem.

I might get ideas and poison Anita’s father.

Besides, I have enough on my mind trying to keep her comfortable. I’m rubbing her back, have been for what feels like hours. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her, being pregnant and then all this happening.

She woke this morning around seven. Her back was killing her and she was having mild contractions. So we packed everything up and headed to the hospital. Where they informed us that she was in false labor. Braxton-Hicks contractions, they said, not the real thing. So they sent us home, and now Anita is lying on the bed, miserable, and trying to watch a movie.

“I want this over with, Edward,” she says to me.

I can only rub her back, there is nothing else I can do.

“I don’t want to be pregnant anymore.”

I can feel her belly contracting gently as I smooth my hand over it, give her a careful hug. I press a kiss to her shoulder blade and start rubbing her back again, letting my fingers slide low into the base of her spine. It is here that she hurts the worst.

“Get it out of me,” she whimpers.

I try not to sigh, to feel guilty. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Anita.”

“Get it out of me!”

“I can’t exactly do that, Anita.”

“You did this to me; now get it out of me!”

I just rub her back.

“I’m sorry, Edward,” she whispers. I can barely hear her over the movie. “I’m just so tired. And it hurts.”

“Does rubbing your back actually help?” I ask. If I can find any way to make this easier on her, I will.

“A little,” she says. She sighs and groans. “I have to pee again.”

“Okay,” I say as I help her up. She can’t do that on her own anymore, the baby gets in the way too much. “When you come back, I’ll rub your back some more.”

So she goes, closes the door. I hear the water running as I fluff her pillows and pause the movie. Then I hear her curse. The water shuts off and the door opens. Anita’s standing there, silhouetted by the light, her night shirt hiked up to her hips and a towel wrapped around her waist.

“Edward, I think it’s time,” she’s saying.

My eyebrows shoot up. “Anita, we just saw the doctor this morning. They said you were fine.”

“No,” she says. “Edward, my water broke.”

“Oh, fuck,” is all I say.

**XI**  
_1 hour_

I’m not insane, yet, but I think I may go that way if the night doesn’t get better. The roads aren’t iced, there’s dirt all across them from the trucks that cleared the light dusting of snow that fell this evening. So I’m not watching the speedometer. Not really.

It was a feat in itself getting Anita collected and to the car. First I call the hospital, I tell them her water broke, should we come in? Because they sent her home this morning and said not to worry. Yeah. Right. And naturally they ask if we’re sure.

Anita has to take the phone away from me. When all is said and done they tell her to go ahead and shower, that’ll be fine, then come in. So she takes a hot shower that steams the bathroom up. I load her bag into the trunk. Then take it out and put it in the front seat. Then finally get it in the backseat.

I put the car seat in the backseat and am buckling it in before it crosses my mind that I won’t need it for at least a few days. So I go back in the house and grab my bag, and throw it in the trunk. Yank it back out and put it the back with hers.

Then I get in the car, and drive away.

And two and half minutes later my cell phone rings. It’s Anita. Asking me where the hell I am and why did I leave her at the house.

Normally I do great under pressure, but for some reason, not tonight. So I go back and pick her up. Literally. Sort of. She isn’t having any real contractions yet, just the lower back pain, and keeps hitting me and telling me to let her walk.

But one way or the other, we get both of us and everything we need in the car, and head for the hospital. Normally it would be a fifteen minute drive or so. I am bound and determined to make it in three. Which is why the flashing red and blue lights in the rear view mirror are so annoying.

“Edward, you have to stop for the nice policeman. I don’t want to have this baby while you’re in central booking for evasion,” she says calmly, one hand rubbing her belly.

I bare my teeth at the thought but slow down and pull to the side of the road, being careful to stay away from the piled snow. The cop pulls up behind us and cuts his siren, leaving the lights to flash annoyingly. I watch him step out of the car into the cold, his breath smoky around his face.

I lower the window as Anita pulls the registration and insurance out of the glove box and hands them to me. My license is in hand, and he bends down and looks in. “License and registration, please,” he says, and I shove them rudely at him.

“Can we make this quick?” I ask. More like demand.

He raises and eyebrow and brings a flashlight to shine in my face. “Got a party you’re late for?”

I can hear the annoyance and scorn in his voice as he asks, and Anita squeezes my hand, reminding me not to get arrested. I’d rather shoot the bastard and get on with it. So I only clench my hands around the steering wheel as I envision his neck instead, saying, “As a matter of fact, we do. With the stork.”

He shines the light at Anita who tries to smile sweetly and fails as she shifts with what I think might be a real contraction. This time it’s her temper that needs to be reined in.

“Unless you want to deliver a baby for me, I’d get back in my car,” she snarls. I can see the movement as the baby shifts in her belly, even through the coat I’ve wrapped around her.

The cop looks at my license and back at me, shining the light again. “Ted Forrester, the bounty hunter, right?”

I nod, and his mouth makes a little ‘o.’

“Then she’s Anita Blake,” he says, “the Exe—”

“The Executioner, yes, yes,” I interrupt. “And she’s having a baby. Can we go?” I almost snarl and snatch my paperwork and license from his hands.

He nods. “Go right ahead. I’ll escort you.”

I don’t respond, only roll the window up in his face and gun the engine, peeling out and leaving him covered in slush. A few minutes later he darts around us, lights and sirens wailing. I tailgate him the entire way to the hospital, making sure to breeze by him and park at the ambulance bay when he would have turned into the parking garage.

Asshole.

Once the car is stopped, I turn it off and get out, heading in towards the nurses station and admin desk. There’s no way that Anita will be able to walk in, not the way she’s feeling. Not real pain yet, but definite discomfort. Besides, all those doctor types like putting you in a wheel chair on hospital grounds.

Fewer lawsuits, they say.

I get to it, walking right past several people waiting in line. A glance tells me that they’re not in any immediate danger. And I know that once Anita is in she’ll be taken right up to the Labor & Delivery floor, no chance of her waiting.

“I need some help, I’m having a baby,” I say to the first nurse to look up.

He stares at me incredulously. “If you’re having a baby, I’m the pope,” he says.

I simply glare, and his face wilts beneath it. “My wife. She’s in the car. She’s having a baby.”

There’s a quick flurry and the man and another nurse, a young woman, grab a gurney and wheel it out to the ambulance bay. They help Anita out, lay her on the gurney and cover her with one of the light blankets they keep, and then they start to wheel her off.

I move to follow and Anita tells them, “Wait.”

Everyone stops at the commanding tone, and she looks at me, holding a hand out. I take it bend down to kiss her gently. She smiles. “Edward, go park the car. Get my bag, you know where to go.”

I nod, kiss her again and try not to feel a twinge of guilt as I go to move the car and leave her to the mercy of the man and woman steering the gurney into the hospital.

**XII**  
_3 hours_

She’s sleeping in the bed, lightly, but sleeping. The contractions are fairly far apart and not as intense as they will be, according to her charge nurse. Kelly, the nurse, is a pleasant enough woman and apparently makes Anita happy. She’s confident and easy going, very knowledgeable. She answered all of Anita’s million questions quickly and efficiently.

It doesn’t hurt that she’s had four kids of her own, so she knows exactly what Anita’s going through. And even me, because I can see the occasionally sympathetic looks she’s shooting at me as I sit here watching Anita sleep.

She has a monitor strapped to her stomach that charts the contractions and how the baby is doing. An IV running into the back of her left hand, and electrodes taped to her chest. They say it’s all normal. A precaution, especially since the water already broke.

Even if it hadn’t, they would have admitted her anyway. Without contractions, no pain, no nothing, Anita has already dilated to 3 centimeters. The baby is still fine, it moves on occasion, but seems to prefer being quiet right now.

Its heart sounds like a humming bird’s wings when they come in and check. There’s a little switch on the fetal monitor that lets it play into the room. I flip it every so often to reassure myself that the baby is still there, still alive.

**XIII**  
_6 hours_

“’Sup?”

“It’s me,” I say into the phone.

I hear muffled talking in the background as Josh calls over his shoulder, “It’s Edward, Mom.” More muffled sounds, a scrape, and then, “Edward?”

It’s Judith. I would have preferred talking to Josh, but at least her father didn’t take the phone. That would have been interesting, to say the least. He was still dealing with her having sex. With me. And having a baby. Mine.

The last we had talked it nearly came to blows.

“They admitted her a couple of hours ago,” I say.

“She’s in the hospital,” Judith yells. I only hope it’s over her shoulder. “Why didn’t you call us sooner?”

I glance back I the room, cracking the door and making sure Anita was still asleep. She was. I closed, kicking the cord under the door so that it wouldn’t catch in the frame. They didn’t allow cell phones in the ward.

“No cell phones. She’s been sleeping, didn’t want to wake her.”

“Well?”

I shake my head, an amused laugh stuck in my throat. “Three centimeters, no drugs, 30 percent effaced. They figure it’ll be a while unless they give her something and she refused anything that would speed the labor up.”

“She would,” is all Judith says.

“I’ll call when something happens.”

I hang up the phone and tuck the whole thing under my arm, stepping quietly back into the room and sitting it on the small counter space provided. Then I head back out to the nurses station. I figure I have a few minutes before Judith realizes that I didn’t give her the room number or direct phone line.

“Excuse me,” I say to the nurse at the desk, smiling my most charming smile. “Can I ask a favor?”

She smiles back. “Sure, what do you need?”

As I gesture over my shoulder to the open door I say, “My wife’s asleep and her family can be a little overzealous. If anyone calls, could you not tell them anything?”

I let the smile go a little and paste on a tired and frustrated mask. “Especially the room number.”

The nurse laughs. “Sure thing.”

**XIV**  
_10 hours_

The sun rose quietly about an hour ago. I closed the blinds and drapes to let Anita continue sleeping. I haven’t seen her sleep this well in months and I don’t want to do anything that might disturb her. Besides, according to the doctor, she needs to conserve as much energy as she can for the really hard part.

I’m leafing through an old magazine that I found in the room when she wakes up. She looks around in confusion, one hand going to her swollen belly and her eyes suddenly going wide as she realizes where she is.

“I fell asleep?” she says as she starts to sit up.

I waggle a finger at her and hand her the control for the bed. “Use this. You don’t want to disturb the monitor.” I lean over and press a kiss to her cheek as she presses the button. The bed makes a loud whirring as it moves.

“I’m thirsty,” she says, batting her eyes at me. If it weren’t so funny I might try teasing her.

Then again, she may kill me.

“The doctor said ice chips. Nothing else,” I tell her, wondering if she’s going to get upset. It’s the kind of thing that would have set her off a week ago, and I am surprised when she nods and picks the magazine off of my lap and starts reading.

I go down the hall to the small cafeteria they provided for visitors and the like, get a cup and fill it with ice chips. I grab a bottle of water for me and go back, drinking it as I walk, trying to finish it before I go back in the room. I don’t want to remind her that she isn’t allowed to eat or drink anything but ice chips until it’s over.

I drop the now-empty bottle in the trash at the nurse’s station before taking a sharp right into Anita’s room, and find her with the doctor. They’re talking basic things about the delivery and what she prefers.

I hear him ask if she wants to try a water birth and nearly laugh at her vehement, “No! It’s bad enough someone’s going to be playing catch between my legs. I’m not taking a swim with everyone watching.”

“I was talking to your husband about it,” the poor man begins.

Anita cuts him off with, “And I’m sure he said you’d have to talk to me.”

I had and could only shrug when the doctor glances at me as I come to sit beside her. As a matter of fact, I’d said something very similar, but Anita is already upset.

“I’m the one having the baby; you don’t need to talk to him about anything. You talk to me. Got it?”

I start laughing quietly. That’s my girl.

**XV**  
_12 hours_

She’s finally beginning to have some noticeable contractions. Noticeable to her, at least. The doctor thought she’d have been squirming and asking for drugs hours ago. But then, he doesn’t know how high her pain tolerance can be when she needs it to be.

The only thing that’s really irritating her is the back pain. Which is normal, and so is me rubbing her back. I seem to spend more time doing that than anything else for her in the last week. And especially today, I think as I glance at the clock and see I’ve been rubbing it steadily for over an hour.

Of course, the doctor is irritating her even more.

He wants to give her drugs. Which means needles. And she’s having none of it.

“I don’t want drugs. Look at me, I’m fine. You said so yourself,” she says as she flips to another channel on the small television on the wall.

“Ms. Blake.” The doctor isn’t young, nor is he old. And I would readily believe he was experienced in delivering babies and drugging hostile women so that they don’t break hands as they give birth.

But he’s never dealt with my wife.

“I’ll be fine,” she says one last time before the doctor throws his hands up and leaves.

**XVI**  
_15 hours_

She’s beginning to think that she won’t be fine, after all. The contractions are worsening and it seems like every other nurse on the floor has stopped in to tell her how brave she is for doing it naturally. I wonder if the doctor told them to.

Then again, her own nurse is praising her. Kelly seems impressed. Truly impressed. She claims that when her contractions were at the level that Anita’s were she was threatening her husband instead of focusing on something and breathing.

Anita, though, is staring steadily at her chosen focal point. A lovely glass rose that seems to float in the air. In reality, it’s suspended by a very fine, very strong wire from its base. It drifts back and forth on the breeze of her steady breathing. Lamaze is truly coming in handy.

Her eyes follow it as her belly tightens. I hear a faint grinding as Anita clenches her teeth and jaw, trying to breath through the ever-strengthening contractions.

I lay a hand on her belly, rubbing it gently. It seems to help with the pain, that simple contact against the pressure. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s psychological. But her abdomen is as hard as stone beneath my hand, and again I wonder how a baby can stand up against the onslaught of contractions.

But then, they’re not supposed to. That’s why they come out.

Anita’s breathing changes and I glance at the monitor that records her contractions and then at her face. They’re getting worse, and she’s beginning to sweat a little.

“Edward, I think I changed my mind,” she says faintly as it finally tapers off.

I take a cloth to her forehead, blotting the sweat, and then give her a few ice chips to suck on. “Do you want me to find the doctor?” I ask as I smooth her hair back.

She nods. “Yeah. I think I need some drugs.”

**XVII**  
_19 hours_

They’re so much worse now. She writhes every time one comes, and they’re coming so close together she barely has time to breathe before a new contraction has caught her. The doctor has been paged, we’re only waiting on him to come and arrange for the epidural Anita has finally agreed to have.

They offered her a Demerol drip to let her relax between them. Anita declined. She was worried it might hurt the baby, and she also pointed out that there wasn’t really any time between the contractions. So it wouldn’t really help, now would it?

The doctor finally comes, and he has her chart in hand. He also has a worried-nervous-apologetic look on his face. He doesn’t stand close to the bed, either.

“Ms. Blake, I’m so sorry. But our anesthesiologist isn’t available to come give you an epidural right now. He’s in a scheduled cesarean, and has another one after that.”

I take one look at Anita and walk right out of the room. I can hear her yelling until the elevator doors closed.

Ten minutes and a bag of chips later I come back up, hoping she won’t kill me for leaving when she blew her stack. Instead of walking in to a war zone, I walked in to a quiet, peaceful room with Anita sitting there calmly, if some what glassy-eyed, as she watched the contractions on the monitor.

“Epidural?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t remember what he called it. But it works.” She smiles a distinctly drugged smile.

**XVIII**  
_21 hours_

“Kelly, I think I need to push.”

Kelly glances at her then at me before coming over to check the monitors. “Are you sure, honey?”

Anita squirms, pants. “I have to push. Now,” she grates out as Kelly bends to check.

I few small sounds later, and Anita’s steady stream of soft curses, Kelly straightens. “Anita,” she says, all business. “Whatever you do, don’t push. You’re dilated to 10, you’re effaced. It’s time. I’m going to go get the doctor now.”

She rushes off and Anita turns to me. “Edward? Where are the drugs? I can’t do this without drugs, and that thing wore off already.”

I kiss her forehead and hold her hand. “We’ll ask the doctor when he gets here,” I say, hoping that she’ll get her epidural. But all my reading has taught me one thing: there is such a thing as it being too late for drugs.

And it is. Not two minutes after the doctor comes in to see Anita struggling not do what her body is demanding she do, he has her situated and is ready for her to push. Her hand is shaking as it holds to mine, and her eyes are wide and afraid.

“You said I could have drugs, where are my drugs?” she demands as tears begin to slip down her cheeks. “I can’t do this without them.”

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but there’s no time for them. The baby is ready to come now,” the doctor says as Anita squeezes my hand. “When I tell you to push, push as your husband counts to ten. Then relax.”

Anita looks into my eyes and I stare back as the doctor says, “Push.”

Then her eyes are closed and she’s pushing, crying and cursing as she does. I count to ten just as I was instructed and then it’s over with and she lies back on the bed. She’s really crying, it hurts her that badly.

“There’s something wrong,” she says,” something’s not right.”

Then it’s time again, and as she pushes her mouth opens in a silent cry. She stops, wincing and pressing a hand to her stomach where the baby is struggling to leave her body. “Something really isn’t right,” she says.

Kelly checks the monitors and then presses a hand to Anita’s forehead. “Nothing’s ever right when you’re trying to push a baby out.”

And again, but this time as she pushes she tenses up suddenly. This time when her mouth opens it’s in a scream. A real and true scream, and she collapses back. I glance up and see the doctor’s hands covered in blood, back to her pale face.

Then they’re rushing around, someone grabs my arm and shoves me out the door, following behind me. They grab the phone up, press a button, call for another doctor. She looks at me.

“I need you to stay out here. We’re going to take care of your wife and your baby, but you have to stay here, okay?” she asks.

I nod. She pushes through the door and the last thing I see as before it closes is blood.

**XIX**  
_23 hours_

When they finally come out it’s hours later. A little over two, and it’s the doctor and Kelly. They both have serious expressions and I try and brace myself for the worst. I can feel all of the blood rushing away from head leaving me feeling ill.

A faint smile crosses Kelly’s face and I only have that one thing to go on when the doctor starts to talk. “Your wife and the baby are okay,” he’s saying. “The boy was larger than expected and there was some tearing when she pushed.”

_The boy._

“Your wife is in surgery right now, repairing the tears and being properly stitched after the cesarean. But we anticipate a full recovery.”

Surgery. Tears, stitching. The heart attack I had when they rushed her past me on a gurney is well worth, I think. She’s safe. She’s alive. And the baby…

“Would you like to see your son now?” Kelly asks.

I follow her down a corridor, into a room. There aren’t a lot of babies, only a few. And only one in blue. _Would you like to see your son now?_ My son.

My son.

I swallow as she lifts the small wrapped bundle out of the hospitals version of a bassinet and hands him to me. I move one hand to support his head and let the other cradle him from beneath, pushing the blanket down a little and looking at his face.

He is red, wrinkled and absolutely hideous as he sleeps in my arms. He’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

“My son,” I whisper as I press a so soft kiss to his small forehead. “My son, the shrimp.”

**XX**  
_December 3rd_

She woke up once during the night, the nurse in the maternity ward came and helped her. I only learned this when I woke this morning. Apparently she hadn’t wanted to wake me as much as I had tried not to wake her yesterday. I wake to the sun shining bright in my eyes and the sounds of soft suckling and crack an eye.

She’s propped up by pillow, cradling the baby in her arms as he nurses.

She must hear me as I shift in the chair at the foot of the bed because she looks up and smiles at me. Her cheeks go pink and she looks down, and I can’t help but think she’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

“I’ll remember this forever,” I say to her as I sit up, then stand and stretch.

“What?” she asks as she deftly disengages his mouth before turning him to the other breast. He fusses for a moment before latching and sucking firmly. She winces.

“Just this,” I say and gesture to her and the baby. “Do you feel better?” I ask as I sit on the bed beside them. I stroke finger down her cheek, then do the same to the baby.

She nods. “I don’t really remember what happened. They told me, though.”

We sit there in silence as the baby finishes nursing, then she rearranges her shirt and carefully burps him. That done she hands him to me as she makes herself more comfortable on the bed. She winces a little then smiles.

“I keep thinking of him as ‘the baby.’ We need to name him,” she says.

I smile. “Me too.” I hold him, and he yawns and closes his eyes. “I was thinking…”

She waits, but I don’t finish the thought. “What were you thinking?” she asks.

“I know we talked about names,” I say. “But I thought that maybe we could name him Christopher. Christopher Matthew. For my dad,” I finish quietly.

“Christopher Matthew,” she says. “Born December 3rd, 9:29 at night. Weighed nine pounds and 14 ounces.”

She stops and I look up.

And she says, “It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”


	4. Spring

**XXI**

Anyone who claims that childbirth is the hardest part of having a child doesn’t look at the bigger picture. As a wail cuts through the silence I feel Anita groan and roll over, burrowing her face into my shoulder. The wail begins to escalate into a louder cry and Anita grumbles and sits up.

I pull her back down and press a very quick kiss to her lips before whispering, “I’ll get him, you sleep some more.”

Christopher isn’t quite two months old, and still refuses to sleep through the night. Which might be a distinct advantage for Anita since she works at night, and would be returning to work in another week. But she was adamant that he be normal, whatever that is.

He’s a light weight in my arms, despite the fact that he has gained quite a bit of weight since he came home from the hospital. And he calms once I cradle him to my chest, only squirming slightly when I lay him down to change his diaper.

Of all the things that had happened since he’d some home, this was the one I truly hated.

But it is quickly done and disposed of, and then his clothes are snapped back into place and I once again hold him to me, humming quietly so that I do not disturb Anita. I’m rocking him when I look up and see her at the door, leaning against the frame.

She looks tired, but there’s a smile on her lips. Small, but still there. And then she rolls her eyes. “It’s dinner time,” she says.

I glance at her chest and, sure enough, there are the tell-tale wet spots that it’s time to feed Christopher. I smile. “You know, if you wore those pad things you wouldn’t have a wet shirt.”

She scowls and takes him from me, sitting down as I stand up. “I don’t sleep in a bra. I don’t care what anyone says, it’s uncomfortable.”

“So’s breastfeeding,” I point out as she grimaces. Christopher has latched on to her breast and is sucking vigorously.

She doesn’t say anything, only makes a non-committal noise as he nurses. And I stand there, watching my wife and son in one of the most natural things in the world. It only makes me smile.

Wife. Son. Lover, friend. Soul-mate.

Family.

This is my family, and I am home with it. Exactly where I should be. I press a kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo; caress gentle fingers over his baby fine hair, dark and not quite curly. But he’s my son, and his eyes, which were blue as all infants’ eyes are when he was born, deepen every day into a purer azure.

He’s the perfect blend of us.

She looks up, her eyebrows tilted and her eyes curious. I shake my head, and she doesn’t press, only looks back down to the baby, smiling.

“You know, he might like a brother. Or a sister.” She looks up at me out of the corner of her eye. “Or both”

I raise an eyebrow. “I could have sworn someone told me that there wouldn’t be any more children unless I went and had them myself.”

She smiles up at me. “Yeah, well. I can always change my mind. I do that a lot, you know?”

I bend down and kiss her again.

“I know.”


End file.
